


A Crawling Shape Intrude

by zombified_queer



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Changelings are weird, Gen, Possession, Vorta made to order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27237517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Laas, upon his return to the Dominion, is granted a Vorta—Borath—to serve him and handle day-to-day operations within the Dominion. After Borath is killed, Laas finds he can take over the corpse. From there, Laas begins to use this newfound power to bend his Dominion-grown servants—the replaced Borath and a cowardly Jem’Hadar—to his will.
Relationships: Laas & Borath
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1
Collections: Star Trek Halloween Horror Bang 2020





	A Crawling Shape Intrude

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to [ Regnet Rex for providing the artwork for this fic!](https://egnet-rex.tumblr.com/r)
> 
> And a special thank you to [ Autistic Androids for being the beta who got this fic in top top shape!](https://autisticandroids.tumblr.com/)

Vorta are weak. They live to serve, always making nonthreatening displays that have yet to be purged from their cloning lines. They are so limited in being a singular being.

Laas thinks they should be thankful to have minds expanded to understand a fraction of the scope all The Founders can achieve. Without the metal in their skulls they would stay as singular, fragile things that are snuffed out with the slightest cosmic breeze.

Laas doesn’t look forward to being assigned a Vorta to serve him, but it is how things are done. All Founders should aspire to have a servant of their own, someone to handle the busywork while Founders relish in the pleasure of being a god.

Really, Laas despises the robotic way Vorta talk, the forced admiration in every syllable. They're not living things, not like other Solids. They're simply programmed and trained and built from pre-existing cells to serve and never talk back.

If Laas had skin, the insincere ooze of Vorta worship would make it crawl.

* * *

The Borath series has shown none of the problems the other lines have. Obedient. Subservient. Punctual. A Borath clone would never betray or talk back.

“Can I make aesthetic modifications?” Laas asks the Vorta technician. “It’s only a minor thing.”

“Anything you’d like, Founder,” the technician answers. “We can reconstruct your Vorta entirely, if its design is not to your tastes.”

It. Laas looks at the body on the table. An empty shell without thoughts. Laas struggles to even call the slab of bipedal flesh alive, really. The wires along the spine support even the most basic functions of filtering waste, delivering oxygen, circulating blood.

But it’s not a person. It’s a shell.

It.

“It’s too clean,” Laas tells the technician. “I’d prefer more facial asymmetry.”

“Any specifics we should change?” The technician’s fingers hover over a tablet, ready to take notes. “Eyes? Ears? Nose? Mouth? We could even do aesthetic dentistry, if you’d prefer, Founder.”

“I’d like,” Lass says, running fingers over the clone’s chest, “for one leg to be two centimeters shorter than the other. And the eyes will need to be farther apart.”

The notes are taken so fast, Laas doesn’t even have time to read them over before the technician pauses, ready to take more notes.

“That’s all,” Laas tells her. “Minor things, really.”

“It will be done, Founder.” The technician submits the forms requesting changes. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Laas pulls his hand back and unconsciously wipes it on the robes the Vorta insisted he be dressed in. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

The Borath is a very boring thing. He reads over reports and only bothers Laas with the most major details of their assignment. Rogue Jem’Hadar here, a cloning facility due for an inspection there. 

Trivial.

Really, the Borath clone could handle everything himself. He’s capable. 

Laas spends most of his time changing. Becoming fog or a Terran condor or mimicking the Vorta’s own hands when he gives the daily reports. 

He’s such a small creature.

He doesn’t even complain about the cosmetics Laas applied to him. Borath simply plods along in his work without a single care in his mind for himself. 

And why should he, Laas thinks as the clone recites the report of the day. A Vorta is just one in a series. Easily replaced. Laas could break this clone’s neck for the slightest thing and have an identical one tomorrow.

“Shall I give the Jem’Hadar their Ketracel now, Founder, or wait another hour?” Borath asks.

“Let ‘em sweat,” Laas tells him.

The Vorta cocks his head. Like a targ not understanding a command. Stupid thing, Laas thinks. 

“Wait,” Laas orders.

“Sir?”

“What?”

“If I may be so bold, I would like to expand my vocabulary to include slang from most Alpha Quadrant races,” Borath proposes. “Terran expression, if I’m not mistaken?”

Laas studies the Vorta. Despite being such a blank slate tied up in worshipping Laas, there isn’t a trace of fear in the Borath. And why should he fear? Laas has never done anything to make the Vorta think he is unloved or unholy.

He should remedy that.

“Go ahead,” Laas says. “Take the whole day to do it, if you want.”

The Vorta laughs. “Founder, it would never take me the whole day to learn anything.”

Laas supposes that’s true. Vorta have a head so full of mechanics it would make the Borg jealous. But he shrugs and makes a sweeping motion with one hand.

Borath makes that same silly bow he always does and leaves.

Laas wonders what it would be like to be a Vorta. He’s always liked the aesthetics of the ears. And the eye colors. Not much else, though. Too robotic and weak. Just drones in a hive of bees. 

But Laas shifts a pair of Vorta ears onto himself, just because he can.

* * *

Today’s chore is another banal inspection. A Ketracel processing plant, this time. Laas had no need for a transporter, simply shifting through the airlock and landing as a lump of clay on the planet’s surface. From there, he unfolds as a mixture of Jem’Hadar and Vulcan, just because he can.

It takes time for the Borath and Jem’Hadar unit to accompany him to the plant. Transporters are so slow and landing vessels are even worse. 

“Founder,” Borath greets with a smile. “It will be a quick errand.”

Laas sure hopes so. The sooner this is over with, the better.

As they take the tour through the guts of the facility, Laas changes shape into an orb. A twenty-pointed polygon. A Klingon. A Varlan. The Vorta and the Jem’Hadar regard each change with a muted worship.

The Cardassian captives working the plant regard Laas with an overt disgust. Exactly what he’d come to expect from solids.

The fungus harvested is processed. None of the machines are broken. It’s really a parade for Laas to honor the Vorta overseers and the Jem’Hadar keeping the slave labour in line.

Laas changes back into the Varlan his Vorta is used to and grabs Borath by the wrist. “Beat him.”

Borath follows Laas’ stare to a Cardassian on the line, one who pauses every so often to cough. The spores in the plant often kill the solids outside of Founder intervention and Laas knows this. He also knows even with that rattling cough, the Cardassian could break every bone in Borath’s body.

But Borath demurely asks, “With what, sir?”

“Your fists,” Laas says, taking Borath’s tablet. “I want him bloody for working so slow.”

Borath nods. “Your will be done, Founder.”

The Vorta cracks his knuckles. Making a fist, the first punch catches the Cardassian off guard, stumbling into the conveyor belt, which scrapes the worker’s cheek. Borath grabs the Cardassian by the hair in one hand and with his right hand balled into a tiny fist, beats the Cardassian’s face.

Laas winces when Borath breaks the Cardassian’s nose. “Enough.”

Borath looks up, blood splattered over his cheek. “Founder?”

“Let him go, Borath,” Laas says softly, as if talking to a rabid animal. “That’s enough.”

“Your will be done, Founder,” Borath says, letting go of the Cardassian.

Laas gives Borath the authority to take over inspection. Instead of moving on, Laas watches the way the other Cardassians help up the bloodied one. Laas listens to the rattle of the beaten Cardassian’s cough and considers how much more damage Borath could have done.

* * *

“What’s happened to your hand?” Laas demands in the middle of the day’s report. 

Borath blinks, then looks at his hand as if he’s just noticed it. “Only a few broken bones, Founder. Nothing to be worried over. I’m completely healed.”

Laas studies it, the way the bones underneath the Vorta’s skin are set just so slightly wrong. He adores it. “I think I like it.”

“Only a cosmetic flaw, Founder,” Borath dimisses. “Nothing to worry over. I’m still fully functional.”

Laas nods. “You were saying?”

Borath breathes a sigh of relief. For the first time, the Vorta consults his tablet for the rest of the report. 

Lass keeps staring at the Vorta’s hand, the angles of his bones so slightly wrong any other solid would miss it. And he adores it.

* * *

Laas watches the ruins of an Alpha Quadrant vessel burning the last of its oxygen before the flames are snuffed out by the voice of space. Borath, next to him, smiles at the ruins they’ve caused. 

“Your will be done, Founder,” Borath says softly.

Laas could order the Vorta out the airlock right now to collect anything of use. Not that they need it. Laas is just an errand boy for the Link. He wonders if any of the other Hundred have made it back only to be greeted with the same bureaucracy. 

“Borath?” 

The Vorta perks up, as though Laas is giving his pet a treat instead of a task. “Yes, Founder?”

“I have a special assignment for you,” Laas says, lowering his voice. “Come to my quarters where we can discuss the details.”

Borath can hardly hide his glee. He stands, carrying his tablet so close. Like a child with a favorite toy. It’s almost endearing.

But Laas doesn’t like this Vorta enough to get attached.

In Laas’ quarters, he instructs, “Pull up any information you have on the Hundred.”

“Yes, Founder.” Borath’s fingers type away at his tablet. “Your will be done, Founder.”

“I want every detail, no matter how small,” Laas orders. “Anything you can dig up.”

Borath nods. “Your authority?”

“Correct.”

And Borath goes back to typing. “Generating the report, sir, will take time. There’s many protective measures around this information, but with your authorization, I can access more.”

“Do it,” Laas tells him. 

Borath nods. “Understood, Founder.”

“Now go,” Laas says. “I want to be alone.”

Borath looks up from his tablet. He scurries out of the room so quickly, like a Varlan rat. 

Laas sinks into a chair. He’s never needed furniture, not like solids, but it’s meant for his comfort. 

And, Laas supposes, Borath’s to some degree.

Laas huffs and moves most of the furniture in his quarters, making a neat pile in a corner. Only the desk with both chairs stays the same.

* * *

Today’s chore is a delivery. Supplies to the same facility. It’s just as banal as the inspections. More so when Laas doesn’t have to get involved. 

He watches as the solids unload the crates of fresh fungus. These should last a while and, if the Vorta in the development department has any sense, they’ll start creating their own greenhouses to farm more of the fungus necessary.

The minerals, Laas thinks, could be synthesized if they utilized their labs. Or built more, if they need it. Staffing is no issue when Vorta are cloned with such ease.

“Founder, you look troubled.” Borath notes, not looking up from the cargo manifest. 

“I think they could do better,” Laas admits. “More labs for synthesizing the minerals. A greenhouse for the fungus.”

Borath nods. “Your will be done, Founder. I’ll have a full report of potential areas of expansion, if you want.”

“We’ll have to walk around?”

“Unfortunately,” Borath answers. “I know First Redan’Agar would be competent enough to handle the manifest in my absence.”

“Sure.” Laas shrugs all four arms. “And I’ll come with you.”

“It would be an honor, Founder.”

Laas whistles for First Redan’Agar, who trots over. “Take over for your Vorta. We’re going to inspect the place.”

“Your will be done, Founder,” First Redan’Agar says, taking the tablet from the Vorta.

“And try not to break anything,” Laas hisses. 

First Redan’Agar nods. 

With Borath’s tablet relinquished, Laas slithers alongside the Vorta. Borath practically skips as he looks around the processing plant and its immediate area. 

“We could do without the woodland on the east side,” Borath notes. “And wood pulp would be an ideal mulch for greenhouse projects. The swamp on the north end is such a useless spot. But draining it would take more time and resources.”

Laas nods, only half-listening to the Vorta chattering on potential solutions and architecture. 

The Changeling watches the Cardassian workers. They regard him and Borath with a sort of icy hatred. But they keep in line under the threat of the Jem’Hadar shock rifles. 

Borath is still chattering when a shot charges the air. The Vorta stiffens, looking at Laas, then collapses into a heap, the plasma hole in Borath’s chest still smoking. 

One of the Cardassians holds a makeshift pistol, out of line. He gives a rattling cough, blood spraying his fist. 

And then he’s gone. Reduced to ash by First Redan’Agar. 

The Jem’Hadar barks out only the order to get back to work.

Laas is still staring at Borath’s open eyes. He can be replaced, certainly. Same flaws, same mind. Just another weak solid to be cloned and replaced.

Laas touches the hole in the Vorta’s chest. So warm it almost hurts. 

Around the Changeling and the corpse, work continues with a quiet sombreness. Cardassians carry the burden of cargo. Jem’Hadar oversee it, weapons unholstered. A steady stream of motion.

Laas doesn’t even care for Borath. Not really. But he decides to devour him anyway.

It’s not like solids eating. The Changeling merely sinks into the very fabric of the Vorta’s body, making it move like a puppeteer drags its wooden charge along on a string. Those first few steps wearing Borath’s body are jerky, unsteady.

It’s been a long time since Laas had to be confined to only a biped. 

Laas figures it out, smoothing each motion.

The Jem’Hadar don’t react, except a few of the newer ones stare a bit too long. First Redan’Agar merely greets Laas in Borath’s body with a curt nod. 

“Your will be done, Founder.”

“Are we finished?” Laas asks in Borath’s voice. 

“We are.” First Redan’Agar finishes balancing the numbers on the cargo manifest. He hesitates to give the report over, as if uncertain who he’s handing it to. “We may leave whenever you like, Founder.”

Laas nods, the experience of having a physical head to nod feeling so strange compared to the fluidity of form he’s used to. 

“We can send a message to the nearest cloning facility. Rondac is a while away, Founder,” First Redan’Agar adds, regaining his composure and handing over the cargo manifest.

“Do you think it’s necessary?” Laas asks, relishing in how he can make Borath’s voice sound bored and snide instead of cold and robotic. 

“I wouldn’t wish to bother you, Founder, with the Ketracel dispensing and minor details.”

“You can handle it, can’t you?”

First Redan’Agar nods. “I suppose so.”

“Then handle it,” Laas snaps. “I’ll be in my quarters.”

Lass doesn’t take the cargo manifest. He storms out of the hold, up to his quarters. And every step is new. Rigid. Solids aren’t half as flexible as Changelings, Laas has to remind himself. 

He’s never needed the mirror. Laas has always known what he looks like. But now, he gazes into it. It’s uncanny to look through the eyes of someone else. One of Borath’s pupils is blown, making the while iris look black. And the other pupil is shrunk to a pinprick, leaving that eye a bright blue. 

Not that Laas has ever needed physical eyes to see. Changelings are above that. The height of sentience.

Laas touches Borath’s chest, where the wound is still warm to the touch. It won’t do to walk around with it shown off. 

Leaving his quarters, Laas enters Borath’s for the first time, just to grab something to wear. He’s almost impressed. The Vorta’s room is so spartan. Laas, in the months spent sharing a bulkhead with the Vorta, had never heard so much as a peep. 

Laas suspected the Vorta had only used the room for sleeping and for changing his uniform after exceptionally strenuous errands.

And it’s true. The room looks hardly lived in. Sheets made. Clothes taking up so little space. Everything swept neatly. Even the desk is free from clutter. Only a couple reports. Nothing more. 

Laas takes his time selecting from Borath’s closet. It’s all the same deep brown and purples. A splash of blue here and there. Nothing exceptional. Not like Laas would prefer to drape himself in.

But he grabs an outfit that’s got more purple and blue than brown and begins the process of dressing the stolen solid body he’s commandeering. 

The old clothes, Laas disposes of without needing to think about it. They’re ruined. Beyond repair, really. And there’s no point in keeping them. 

Laas studies himself in Borath’s mirror. It’s a full-length, so the Vorta could inspect his uniform for any flaws. Laas, not content with conforming to a Vorta’s standard, leaves the shirt unbuttoned almost to the top of the wound.

Dressed, Laas smiles using Borath’s face. 

He can make the Vorta’s body say anything. Do anything. Just because he can, Laas balls Borath’s hand into a fist and leaves a dent in the flimsy closet door. 

And then he sinks onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Laas doesn’t need to sleep. And the body he’s piloting doesn’t really need to either. And Laas is simply in his original state, so there’s no need to sink out of the Vorta’s skin to rest in a pool.

He simply stares up at the ceiling and listens to the thrum of the ship’s processes. Like a giant heart, Laas thinks, beating to keep itself alive.

The Vorta begins to decompose. Laas can do nothing to stop it. It’s the natural state of things. But once Borath’s legs are too weak to support anything, Laas slinks out of the body.

He gives First Redan’Agar the order to have it cremated, as is proper for a Vorta.

But before Borath’s corpse is burned, Laas pulls out the memory chip. Removing it is easier when Laas can simply change his hands into the tools he needs. The chip resides in the back, almost toward the brain stem.

Laas wrenches it out, splattering himself and the cold, harsh metal surfaces of the makeshift morgue with deep purple. Blood. So dark it’s almost black and thickly congealed like oozing scabs.

Laas holds that little chip in his hand. 

It’s the only thing he wants to keep from this clone.

He turns off the lights as he leaves.

* * *

The next Borath, Laas makes the recommendation to have canines removed from his mouth entirely, leaving four distinct holes in his smile. But this Vorta is warmer. Not by any recommendation Laas has made. 

This Borath plays instruments whose construct has been stolen from other races. The Vulcan lute, he’s particularly good with.

And there’s a mean streak that runs even deeper in this clone. 

When they tour processing plants, this Borath will give the Cardassian workers on the line a cold, savage grin. Like he’s considering breaking their noses too. 

It scares Laas, if he’s honest. But every psychological examination comes back fine. There's nothing wrong with his clone. The new Borath isn’t defective in any way.

But sometimes he gives Laas a look like he understands what Laas has done.

* * *

Laas creeps into the room as a fine mist. It makes slipping through the cracks in the doorframe easier. And once on the other side, he assumes the form of a Terran slug. But not nearly so slow. 

He slithers, making his way up one of the posts of the Vorta’s bed. 

Laas knows something has to be done. 

Laas wants to know what devouring the living feels like. 

The Vorta sleeps with his eyes open. But he doesn’t so much as stir. He’s barely breathing, even as Laas slithers over the sheets, over Borath’s cheek.

It only takes a moment. But Laas can feel this is so much different from puppeteering a body. Borath, despite sleeping so deeply, fights. Like a steed trying to buck a rider off. It’s jerky motions from the living against the Laas’ own force of will.

Borath seems to understand what’s happening and relents.

Founder, his thoughts murmur with a subdued sort of awe, I was unaware this was even possible.

“Get used to it,” Laas says with Borath’s own mouth. “This is my will.”

Your will be done Founder, rings and echoes over and over in the Vorta’s skull until Laas himself can hardly bear it.

Laas takes his time getting used to piloting a solid again. Borath’s movements are sometimes counterintuitive to what Laas demands he do. And forcing the Vorta’s body seems to pain Borath.

He won’t voice it, not really, but Laas can taste the deep violet flash of pain that floods the Vorta’s skull when a muscle is strained or bones are forced into a different shape. 

“Did you do this with your last Vorta?” Borath asks with Laas’ permission.

“Not exactly,” Laas answers in Borath’s own voice. “Something like it.”

Laas prevents Borath from speaking, but he can hear those echoes of Your will be done, Founder. Your will be done.

It’s an intoxicating sort of power.

After only an hour, Laas departs from Borath’s body as a golden film. Like the old solid trick of removing a tablecloth without disturbing the dishes on top. 

Borath sinks to his knees, coughing. 

“Rest,” Laas orders. “It was only an experiment.”

“Your will be done, Founder,” Borath answers, not looking up at Laas.

* * *

Knowing what he can do, Laas takes a sort of grim pride in it. How many other Founders would dare to experience being a solid without giving up any of their power? Not many. Maybe none at all. 

Laas considers the Jem’Hadar. He has a small army of them at his disposal. If he wanted, one could be executed for his experiments. 

He’d be a liar if he hadn’t thought about tossing First Redan’Agar to the wolves. But he doesn’t. First is too stupidly loyal. Laas adores that stupid loyalty. 

It’s the Jem’Hadar who get standoffish that Laas despises.

Second Gorat’Klen is one of those mouthy, standoffish Jem’Hadar. Laass loathes it. The scathing stares. The comments asking if Laas is certain on his orders. 

“Founder, is this the correct course of action?” Second Gorat’Klen asks for the third time today. 

Laas leans over and whispers in Borath’s ear, “Dispose of him.”

Borath gives Laas a wide grin, so sharp even without his canines. Without a word, the Vorta rises out of his seat and kicks Second Gorat’Klen square in the chest. 

Second stumbles, tripping over himself. 

And then the Vorta pounces. 

Borath, with no preface and no warning, beats Second Gorat’Klen’s face in. Laas winces at the crack of bone, the splatter from Borath’s directed fury. But the Vorta grins. He’s so invested in the order.

“Enough,” Laas says only long after Second Gorat’Klen is dead. “Borath, enough.”

Borath looks up with a delirious smile. “Yes, Founder.”

The bridge is silent for too long. Laas tears a strip of fabric from Second’s uniform, using it to wipe the blood from Borath’s face. 

“Go to medical and have your hands fixed,” Laas orders, noting the broken bones in Borath’s hands. “I would hate to have you terminated for uselessness.”

Borath nods, scurrying into the lift. 

“Anyone else like to ask questions?” Laas asks, circling around Second’s body. “Or are we satisfied?”

None of the Jem’Hadar answer. Slowly, they all go back to their tasks. Laas gives a curt nod.

Lass takes in Second Gorat’Klen’s skull, how shapeless it looks. And then he devours the body.

A plasma wound and blunt force trauma are two wholly different experiences. Where the late Borath’s body had been mostly functional, Second Gorat’Klen’s body feels off-center. The head’s so full of bone fragments and burst vessels.

It’s hard to believe a Vorta’s small hands could do so much damage.

Laas takes his seat on the bridge, peering through Second Gorat’Klen’s bloodshot eyes.

* * *

At the end of the day, Laas takes a look at himself in Second Gorat’Klen’s body. The face is deeply bruised. The eyes are so dark they’re black with broken vessels. The spines of his face are broken in places, snapped messily off by the force of Borath’s blows. 

Even touching a broken spine sends a jolt through the body that Laas is strangely aloof from.

He walks--in Second Gorat’Klen’s body--down to the crematorium. With no ceremony except to distance himself from the skin, Laas dumps the body there to be burned. 

He’s eager to find out what living Jem’Hadar flesh is like.

* * *

It’s Eighth Horan’Gart this time. Not for any malicious reason but simply because of his cowardice. 

Laas takes over him and the fight is stronger than it was with Borath. The fear tastes a strange sort of green. Like bile and plague. But Laas quells it so strongly he snaps one of the bones in Eighth Horan’Gart’s arms. 

One-armed, Laas fires back at the Cardassians who’re fighting for freedom. They’re too stupid to understand there is nothing beyond the processing plant but empty space for months. It’s more merciful to die here.

Borath, with his small plasma pistol, cackles.

“Founder, your will is strong. It will be done,” the Vorta half-shrieks, blasting away at the Cardassians.

The Cardassian workers, with their cobbled-together weapons, are no match. They have no armor and their weapons jam.

Once the battle’s over, the bodies are taken to be cremated. Laas steps out of Eighth Horan’Gart’s skin.

“Terminate him, Borath,” Laas orders, shoving the Jem’Hadar.

Eighth Horan’Gart lands on his broken arm, hissing. But he is of no use to the unit for being a coward. And an animal with a broken leg must be put down.

“Your will be done, Founder,” Borath tells him, grinning.

One shot. And it’s over for Eighth. The plasma wound doesn’t have time to cool before Laas nods for two other Jem’Hadar to burn Eighth with the Cardassian rebels. 

“Founder?” Borath asks.

“Speak.”

“Would you not be happier with more species?” Borath asks, eyeing a Cardassian worker helping load the corpses in a state of aloof shock. “To expand your knowledge, Founder?”

Laas looks over the field, now empty. All that remains is plasma burns and bloodstains. 

“Perhaps,” Laas tells Borath. 

“You’re unhappy, Founder,” Borath points out. “You seek knowledge.”

“Experience,” Laas corrects.

“I could make accommodations, Founder,” Borath offers, holstering his small defensive pistol. “Vorta are built to serve in any way our Founder deems proper.”

Laas nods. “I know.”

* * *

Lass makes himself appear as Romulan as he can. Borath covers his ears, making himself look like a humble valet to Laas. The Changeling’s face is explained away as an accident by a rather convincing Borath. Laas has no doubts that fury Borath puts into the performance is real.

The hotel is exquisite. Built for solids to rest in luxury. But Laas isn’t a solid. Not yet. 

“The clerk?” Borath suggests. “She was rather...weak-willed.”

Laas is grateful now he’s had his Vorta altered to allow a minor amount of psionic powers. Telepathy is so harmless. Especially when a Founder can never be read by a telepath.

“No,” Laas says. “Someone small.”

Borath nods and smiles at Laas, those missing teeth seeming more like the void of space. “Your will be done, my Founder.”

Borath adjusts the scarf around his ears. It will be a while yet for Romulans to accept Vorta and Founders walking among them. 

Lass scoffs at the thought that Romulans could ever resist the glory of the Dominion. Romulans exist to take power wherever they can find it, whenever they can get it. They’ll learn to accept Vorta overseers the same way the Cardassians have. 

Laas stands at the window, watching the streets. For an arid planet, the Romulans have terraformed their cities into little islands of paradise. Lush and green wherever they can cultivate it. 

So different from Cardassia and Vulcan. 

For the better, Laas assures himself. A smart people make things work for them, not the other way around.

* * *

The Romulan puts up a fight. Even for the dregs of society, she fights fiercely against Laas. She almost bucks him completely off her. 

But the Changeling channels his fury into contorting her limbs to his will.

“Stop fighting,” he tells her in her own voice, “or I’ll break your neck and leave you facedown in the gutter.”

He has to pop her kneecaps out of place before she relents. There’s the hot green fury of Romulan pride in her head. Laas can taste it. 

“Founder?” Borath asks, so sweet it almost makes Laas’ borrowed teeth hurt. “Are you hurt?”

Laas smooths a hand over the Romulan clothes. They suit the body but not Laas’ taste. “You think a solid could hurt me?”

“I worry, Founder.” Borath shrinks, deferring to Laas. “I am created to serve.”

Laas gives a toss of the Romulan head he’s borrowed, relishing in the feeling of long, dark hair brushing over his shoulders. And then he pops the kneecaps back into place. 

“Borath, I might like a change of clothes,” Laas says.

“Yes, Founder.”

Borath guides Laas back to the hotel. The Romulan at the desk raises a brow, but says nothing. With the keycard, Borath enters the hotel’s lift with Laas. 

“Imagine the potential, Borath,” Laas murmurs. “I’m certain the rest of the Link will find this a much more valuable tool than sending Vorta to parlay.”

“And the Alpha Quadrant, Founder?”

“With a few Founders, we could make them kneel,” Laas says, as casually as talking about the weather. “It would take weeks.”

When the doors open, the pair stride down the hall. Laas snatches the keycard from the Vorta, unlocking the door. 

Borath, ever the humble servant, fetches robes of deep purple and gold. Dominion robes. Borath lays them out before running a bath.

It’s the first time Laas has ever needed to use anything to clean the skin he’s in. The bath is warm, bordering on being too hot. And Borath has spared nothing with the bath bomb fizzing to turn the water a soft pink. Laas finds it smoothes the skin he wears. 

Borath washes Laas’ hair for him, fingers delicately scrubbing at the scalp. Laas sighs. It’s almost too luxurious. No solid should live like this.

When the bath is done, Laas dresses in the robes. Silk and fine wool are so different from the rough-hewn uniforms of Vorta and Jem’Hadar. 

“Founder, might I say, you look splendid,” Borath proposes. 

Laas studies himself in the mirror. It’s the first time in live skin that wasn’t Dominion. He rather likes Romulan cheekbones and the strange bone of the forehead that juts out. He might keep some of it when he needs to take a form of his own.

“I suppose I do,” Laas comments. 

Borath’s fingers twist Laas’ hair into a crown braid. With a golden comb in his hair, Laas looks like a vision of splendor. 

“You’ve been a great help, Borath,” Laas says with a small, remorseful smile. 

“I was created to serve.” Borath gives a little bow. “Anything to carry out your will, my Founder.”

Borath doesn’t even have time to scream as Lass grabs him and presses that soft spot behind his ear. When Laas lets go, the Vorta stumbles backward, into the vanity. With a look of betrayal, Borath clutches the side of his head. 

Laas watches as the Vorta is wracked with pain.

“It was promised,” Borath wheezes between what looks like electric shocks straining muscle against skin, “to be...painless.”

“Of course we promised that,” Laas says, stepping over Borath to put on a pair of violet silk slippers. “Would you terminate yourself so willingly if it hurt?”

Borath continues wheezing and gasping. Like a fish out of water. When the Vorta can see through the pain--and Laas imagines he feels plenty of it--each glare is hateful. Angry. There is no stopping the termination protocol once that button behind the ear is pressed.

But Laas simply ignores him to brush a light olive blush over his cheeks. Some kohl along the lines of his eyes. Minor cosmetics to make himself more graceful. An ambassador rather than street rabble. 

By the time Borath’s heart has stopped and all thoughts have been submitted to the next clone in the series, Laas is long gone in Romulan skin.


End file.
